THE ORDEAL OF MRS. SNOW

Mrs. Adelaide Snow heard her niece’s voice and then Bruce Mendham’s laugh in the hall. Quickly she picked up a book and pretended to read. She didn’t want Lorna to think she was waiting up for her, that she was being nosy or uneasy about this frighteningly whirlwind romance.

The two young people came into the living room.

“Aunt Addy, you’re still up.”

“Is it late, dear?”

“Late! Early! How do I know? I don’t even know what year it is!” Lorna ran to her and threw her arms around her. “Oh, Aunt Addy, darling, Bruce has asked me to marry him.”

Bruce Mendham, hovering behind her, smiled his most ingratiating smile. “I hope you approve, Mrs. Snow.”

Mrs. Snow had prepared herself for this moment, and there were more than enough reasons for disapproval. It was hardly a month since they’d met Bruce, coming back from Europe on the Ile de France. They knew practically nothing about his background, his way of life. He had no job, no money. Mrs. Snow, from the promptings of a conventional wealthy upbringing, had intended to emphasize all these points, but now Lorna’s face completely disarmed her.

She had never seen such pure, undiluted happiness. The joy radiating from the girl swept all cold, commonsensical objections aside. Bliss! thought Mrs. Snow in wonder. How seldom it comes, and what a beautiful thing it is!

The fact that an odd sense of foreboding still lurked in her meant nothing. Mrs. Snow was a sensible woman, all too conscious of her own weaknesses. She knew that in the loneliness after her husband’s death her love for her niece had become much too possessive. Surely she would have felt this same reluctance, this same hostility towards any other man who wanted to take Lorna from her. What were the real, human objections to Bruce, anyway? He was handsome, good-natured, immensely kind. Wasn’t it just an ugly demon of jealousy that made her find him a little too good-natured, a little too handsome, a little too—plausible?

Triumphant in her victory over herself, Mrs. Snow smiled at her niece. “Darling, I’m delighted.”

“Oh, Aunt Addy, I knew you would be. Bruce was terribly worried because he had no money, no job or anything. But I told him he didn’t know you. I told him you’d be an angel. Oh, Aunt Addy, darling, I love you so much.”

Already, thought Mrs. Snow wryly, she was reaping the rewards of unselfishness.

“I’ll get a job, of course, Mrs. Snow,” said Bruce.

“I’ve got an idea about that, too,” broke in Lorna. “You know how you’re always saying you should have someone to take care of your affairs, Aunt Addy. Bruce is wonderful with figures and efficiency and things like that. Think! If you hired him we could all three of us go on living here. There’d be no break. You and me and Bruce …”

The bribe! thought Mrs. Snow. But in spite of herself, contentment began to flood through her.

“Bruce working for me? That may be an excellent idea. We’ll think about it.”

But Mrs. Snow knew she wasn’t going to think about it. It was already settled. The pattern of the future was fixed.

Somewhere, deep in her mind, a little voice was whispering: Are you sure you haven’t betrayed yourself—and Lorna?

But the voice was so faint that she could scarcely catch the words.

It was eighteen months later that Mrs. Snow lost her sapphire ring. She was sure she had put it down in the living room when she and Lorna and Bruce had been sitting there after dinner. But no one could find it.

The episode wasn’t very important. The ring was insured, and it had no sentimental value. But Mrs. Snow hated mysteries. After breakfast next morning, she had the living room turned inside out, with no result. Neither Lorna nor Bruce could offer any explanation. And then, because Sylvia Emmett arrived to take Lorna out to Long Island, the search was abandoned.

Bruce, who was joining Lorna at the Emmetts’ the next day for the Labor Day weekend, stayed behind because there was some work to do. He and Mrs. Snow lunched together, and all through lunch Bruce went on about the ring.

“I can’t understand what could have happened to it. It’s so absurd. How can it have vanished into thin air?”

Suddenly, without warning, the idea came to Mrs. Snow: Isn’t Bruce being too innocent about all this?

It was terrifying to her how that one little idea was able to shatter the entire façade that she had, for Lorna’s sake, so carefully constructed. Ever since the wedding, the return from the honeymoon, she had been determined to like and trust her nephew-in-law. If there had been times when he had seemed insincere, conceited, even cunning, she had blinded herself to them. She had thought she had succeeded almost completely in seeing him as Lorna saw him.

But now, once the idea of the ring had come, she realized how much she had been fooling herself. She had never liked Bruce; she had never trusted him. This proved it. For here she was, although she had given him full control over her business affairs, calmly considering him capable of so sordid a petty dishonesty as stealing her ring.

For a moment, Mrs. Snow felt dizzy, and before she could control herself another insidious thought jumped into her head. Several times that year her banker, Hilary Prynne, who had been her late husband’s closest friend, had jocularly accused her of extravagance. It hadn’t seemed to her that the household had been spending more than usual, and she had dismissed Hilary’s remarks as mere playful badinage. But what—what if Bruce had been tampering with the accounts as well?

Mrs. Snow hated herself for these unwanted suspicions. She felt unclean, as if she were perversely desirous of destroying Lorna’s happiness. But she was clearheaded enough to know that a suspicion, however unjust, should be checked before it is dismissed.

After lunch, she went up to the study and called the bank. Fortunately, Hilary was in Baltimore until Friday, so it was easy enough to ask for a statement and her recent checks without arousing any awkward questions. The assistant manager assured her that the statement would be in the mail next morning.

Mrs. Snow put down the receiver and gazed at it bleakly, as if it were a symbol of impending disaster for all of them.

Let me be wrong, she thought. Please, let me be wrong.

Next morning, she sat down at the Chippendale desk in her late husband’s study. She put on her reading glasses and looked down uneasily at the manila envelope from the bank, which she had slipped out of the morning mail before Bruce came down to breakfast.

There was no turning back now.

As she lifted the ivory paper cutter to slit the envelope, a tap sounded at the door. She started. It was only Joe, the handyman.

“I’m all finished up down cellar, Mrs. Snow. Okay if I leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Joe.”

“And, Mrs. Snow—my wife’s going on at me about scraping the floors down to our place. Seeing it’s a long weekend, I was wondering if maybe I could borrow the sanding machine.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Snow. “Take it right now.”

“Well, I got a couple of chores uptown. I could pick it up tonight.” Joe hesitated at the door. “You sure you going to be okay all this time with Maggie away sick and only Arlene to help?”

“You know I’ll be all right, Joe. Bruce will be off any minute to Long Island. I’m having no guests. Arlene will be here by noon, and there’ll be no one but me.”

“But it’s a long weekend. Maybe if I was to drop in Sunday?”

“Now don’t fuss, Joe. Go off and have a wonderful Labor Day spree.”

“Okay, Mrs. Snow. Thanks.”

The door closed behind Joe. Mrs. Snow opened the envelope and took out the statement and the bundle of cancelled checks. She had no clear idea of what she was searching for, but like most very rich women she was less vague about her money than she seemed. She started to turn over the checks. Bergdorf’s, Hammacher Schlemmer, Cartier’s—yes, that had been for Lorna’s wedding anniversary bracelet. She came to a check made out to cash for seven hundred and fifty dollars. She puckered her forehead at it and put it aside. By the time she reached the bottom of the pile, she had found two more checks made out to cash. One for five hundred. One for fifteen hundred.

She spread the three checks in front of her and studied them. They were correctly numbered for their place in the sequence. The signatures looked like hers. They must have done, for the bank to have passed them. But she was completely sure she had never written them.

So I’m right, she thought, with a cold sinking of the heart. And at the beginning my instinct was right, too. In my cowardice at the idea of losing her, I did this to Lorna! I let her marry a crook, a blundering fortune hunter!

Impulsively she picked up a red pencil and scribbled Forgery across one of the checks.

Her self-accusations and her anguish for Lorna were merged with her anger against Bruce’s stupidity. True, it was one of his duties to take care of the incoming cancelled checks. He must have thought it would be easy to destroy the forgeries before she found them. But did he imagine she was so woolly-headed that she would not sooner or later notice a $2,750 discrepancy in the accounts?

Mrs. Snow put the three checks in the manila envelope and rose with the envelope in her hand. There was nothing indecisive in her character. She had started this; she would go through with it. It cut her like a knife to realize how Lorna was going to suffer. But Lorna was no fool and no craven. Once she knew the truth, she would be able to face it. Grimly Mrs. Snow moved to the door, past the large walk-in safe that stored all her papers and her late husband’s yachting trophies.

“Bruce!” she called down the stairway. “Bruce, I want you up here, please.”

Her nephew-in-law was smiling when he strolled into the study. Mrs. Snow could now admit to herself that she had always been irritated by Bruce’s smile. It was as smug and self-satisfied as his thick black hair, his little moustache, his graceful horseman’s body.

“Good morning, Aunt Addy.”

Mrs. Snow looked at him icily. “It’s not a very good morning, Bruce. I’m afraid I’ve caught you out.”

“Caught me out, Aunt Addy? What have I been up to now?”

“I give Lorna a very generous allowance. If you needed more money, you could always have come to me. Why, in heaven’s name, did you forge those checks?”

Mrs. Snow was startled at the total collapse of Bruce’s poise. Was he so conceited that he had never prepared himself against possible exposure?

“Checks?” he stammered.

“It’s useless to deny it.” Mrs. Snow held out the manila envelope. “I have the three checks here. They are obvious forgeries. They have the correct numbers on them. You’re the only person with access to my checkbook, the only one who could have known the right numbers. I haven’t the slightest idea how many other checks you’ve forged in the past, but that can easily be found out. It doesn’t particularly matter now, anyway. Nor does the sapphire ring.”

Mrs. Snow was ashamed of the feeling of personal satisfaction mingling now with her distress. “I’m not going to bother telling you what I think of you, Bruce. I don’t believe in wasting breath. Nor do I believe in giving thieves a second chance. I’ve called you up here because I think it’s only fair to let you know what I’m going to do. I’m going to call Lorna right now. The sooner she knows the truth the better. After that I shall call my lawyers and have them start immediate divorce proceedings. Later, I may or may not turn you over to the police. That will depend entirely on how well you behave.”

“But, Aunt Addy—” Bruce Mendham’s smile was meant to be both rueful and charming, but it merely succeeded in making him look like a Hallowe’en pumpkin. “Just listen to me, please. I can explain. I was in a jam. I was going to pay it all back. I swear I was. I got a tip on a horse at Belmont. Seven to one. It couldn’t lose. That’s what they told me. I called a bookie I know and bet five thousand to win. Okay, so the horse came in third. That happens all the time. But what could I do?”

Both his hands had gone out towards her. The skin of his face was greenish and damp. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he might, at any moment, drop down on his knees.

“Aunt Addy, you can’t play fast and loose with those bookies. They’re tough. They can have you killed if they feel like it. He wanted his money. I scraped up all I had. It wasn’t enough. He demanded the rest. Lorna has only what you give her. I knew it wasn’t any use going to her, and I knew you wouldn’t understand.

“I had to do something. I was desperate. I wrote the first check, to stall him, and … Aunt Addy, I’ll pay you back. I’ll work for nothing. I’ll raise the money somehow. Please, please, don’t let Lorna know. Don’t go to the police. I was crazy. I realize that now. I’ll never look at another horse. I swear it. Aunt Addy, if only you’ll give me a chance …”

Mrs. Snow listened to this incoherent flow of words with contempt and disgust. A cringing crook was worse than a brazen crook, she thought. Poor Lorna! Her head ached. She took off her reading glasses and lit a cigarette.

“Please, Bruce, don’t go on. You must know these childish excuses haven’t the slightest effect on me.”

She put down the envelope, turned to the telephone, and dialled.

“Operator, I want to call the Lawrence Emmetts at East Hampton. I don’t know the number, but you can get it from Information.”

Mrs. Snow had turned her back on Bruce. Her moment of feeling triumphant was over. Now she could think only of the unpleasantness that lay ahead, and the sight of the sycophantic Bruce was extremely distasteful to her. She was concentrating on the best way to break the news to Lorna. She didn’t notice Bruce’s hand move stealthily forward and slip the manila envelope off the desk.

“Hello, Sylvia? This is Adelaide Snow. Is Lorna there?”

“Hello, Mrs. Snow.” Sylvia Emmett’s voice was brisk and outdoorsy as ever. “I do wish you’d change your mind and drive down with Bruce. We’d so love to have you. I’m afraid Lorna and Larry went out sailing early. They’ll be back for lunch, though. Shall I have her call?”

“Yes. Yes, please. And, Sylvia, tell her to do it the moment she comes in. It’s extremely urgent.”

“Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Just tell her I shall want her to return immediately.”

Mrs. Snow put down the receiver and turned back to Bruce. He seemed to have pulled himself together. He was no longer craven. He looked surly, a little sinister.

“Aunt Addy, you’d better think this over. I warn you.”

“You warn me? What absurd impertinence!” Indignation rose in Mrs. Snow. “Lorna’s out sailing. I’ll have to call the lawyers without her.”

She moved back to the phone and then remembered that Sampson and Gibbons had recently changed offices. Their new address was on a letter she’d received a few days before. It would be in the safe.

She dropped the cigarette into an ashtray on the desk, crossed to the vault’s heavy steel door, and dialled the familiar combination. The door swung open. She stepped inside and turned on the light. The letter file was at the back of the little room by the heating duct, opposite the shelves where her husband’s yachting cups gleamed brightly.

As she moved towards the file, she heard a faint creak behind her. She turned to see the door of the vault swing shut. She gave a little exclamation of irritation and alarm. The spring mechanism on the door had broken last week. Joe and Bruce were supposed to have fixed it. She was foolish to go on using the safe. There was no real need for it.

She took the few steps back to the closed door and tapped on it urgently.

“Bruce,” she called. “Bruce, let me out! Let me out!”

Bruce Mendham stood in the study by the desk. He could hear his heart pounding. He had never dreamed the old lady would get wise to the checks. Exposure had taken him completely by surprise. Even when he had slipped the manila envelope into his pocket he had had no plan. It had just seemed obvious that possession of the checks would be an advantage. And then she had gone into the vault. Suddenly, the opportunity for salvation had come; almost without thinking, he had taken it.

The moment he had pushed the safe door shut behind her, he’d realized how brilliant his instinct had been. Joe knew he had been planning to leave the house to join Lorna immediately after breakfast. Joe, too, was a witness to the fact that the door mechanism on the safe had been faulty. Alone in the house, Mrs. Snow had gone into the vault for something; the door had swung shut behind her; and …

Bruce Mendham, who had spent all his life charming himself into one comfortable berth after another, had little imagination. To him, Mrs. Snow was just a boring old woman turned dangerous, who had almost succeeded in ruining his very existence. He could think of her shut up in the safe as unemotionally and scientifically as if she were one of her Siamese cats.

Four days, including Labor Day, until the next week began! Certainly, in a small, sealed room, she could never last that time. He had the checks, and once Mrs. Snow was out of the picture there would be no one to testify against him. And Lorna would inherit everything.

How could he ever have doubted the Mendham luck?

“Bruce!” He heard Mrs. Snow’s voice, muffled like a voice on a bad telephone connection. “Bruce, let me out.”

Excitement and self-satisfaction sprang up inside Bruce. Joe had gone for the weekend. Maggie, the maid, was at home sick. The cook, who slept out, too, and came in daily, was due to arrive at noon. But that could easily be fixed. So could Lorna. It would be a cinch to explain away Mrs. Snow’s urgent call. He never had any trouble handling Lorna.

Bruce Mendham took the manila envelope out of his pocket. He brought out the three checks. He frowned angrily when he saw the word Forgery scribbled over one of them.

“Bruce, Bruce, let me out, I say.”

Bruce put the checks back in the envelope and replaced the envelope in his pocket. With a casual, confident glance around the study, he strolled downstairs to the living room. Mrs. Snow’s two Siamese cats were perched on a window sill before a broad panorama of the East River. Bruce took out his pocket telephone book. He was meticulous in his habits. All the necessary addresses for his job were duly listed there. He found the cook’s number and dialled it.

“Hello. Arlene?”

“That’s right.”

“Arlene, this is Mr. Bruce. I’m calling for Mrs. Snow. She’s decided at the last minute to go away for the weekend. You needn’t come until Tuesday.”

“Honest?” Arlene’s rich Southern voice was bubbling with pleasure. “Gee, that’s fine, Mr. Bruce. I can really git me a ball.” She broke off. “You sure she ain’t going to need me? The cats, maybe?”

“No, Arlene, everything’s taken care of. See you Tuesday. Happy Labor Day.”

“Happy Labor Day to you, Mr. Bruce.”

Bruce dropped the receiver and went upstairs, past the study, to his and Lorna’s bedroom. Lorna had packed his suitcase for him yesterday, before she had driven down ahead of him with Sylvia Emmett. He picked up his brief case from the bed and slipped the manila envelope inside beside the bundle of letters from the morning mail, which he was taking to Lorna. As he did so, he remembered Mrs. Snow’s sapphire ring. When he had picked it up in the living room two days ago, he had been planning to pawn it for a new stake to play the horses. He wouldn’t need it now, but it might come in handy. He took it out of his trouser pocket and dropped it into the brief case. He heard it clatter against the revolver he’d bought last week for protection when he thought he might not be able to raise the cash in time.

He locked the brief case and glanced at his watch. Ten-fifteen. Plenty of time to make East Hampton before Lorna came back from sailing. He glanced at himself in the mirror. The reflection was as satisfactory as usual. At the back of his mind there was a faint sensation of panic. But it didn’t trouble him. He hardly remembered that only a few minutes before he had been sweating in terror before visions of poverty and jail.

Bad things happen to you. That was life. You just had to use your brains and rise above them.

He strolled out of the house and through the glossy sunshine of Sutton Place to the garage. Before he drove off, he tossed the attendant a dollar.

“Happy Labor Day, Mr. Mendham.”

“Happy Labor Day, Nicky.”

“Let me out, Bruce.”

Mrs. Snow rapped once again on the smooth, handleless interior of the safe door. The terror of confinement in small places, which had plagued her all her life, was uncoiling inside her like a python. It merged with her other, more rational fears. Bruce knew the combination of the lock. He had been standing right out there. Why hadn’t he…?

She forced herself not to think until she was sure she could check her panic. Claustrophobia was a weakness. You could control it by will power. Calm, she said. Calm.

On the shelf at her side, the yachting trophies sparkled in the illumination from the single ceiling bulb. When Gordon had been alive, they had spent months out of every year sailing all over the world. She had been in many dangerous situations and endured them.

The thought of the ocean, vast, sun-swept, open to the sky, helped stave off the trapped sensation, and she felt strong enough now to face the truth. Bruce was not going to let her out. He was as stupid as he was dishonest. When he had seen the door close on her, he must have lost his head. She had threatened to turn him over to the police and he had taken advantage of an accident to try some hysterical getaway attempt. That must be it. Of course that was it. What a fool she’d been to walk into the safe!

And yet—I warn you. She remembered the ominous look on Bruce’s face when he had said that. Was it possible that he had deliberately shut the door on her? Was it possible…?

Panic leaped up in her again. She fought it back implacably. Whatever Bruce might have in his mind, there was nothing to be seriously alarmed about. True, the house was large and the safe in the very middle of it. There was no possible hope of attracting the attention of neighbors. But Gordon had designed the safe himself for his collection of oceanic sculpture, which had gone to the Metropolitan Museum at his death. It was large, almost like a small room. It must be at least eight feet by six.

And she wouldn’t have to be shut up here for long. Arlene would arrive at twelve. She glanced down at her tiny platinum wrist watch. Without her reading-glasses, she couldn’t make out the position of the hands. So much for her vanity in refusing to wear glasses all the time! But it was certainly after ten. There was less than two hours to wait.

For Arlene would arrive at noon. It was inconceivable that Bruce would do anything, telephone to put her off, for example…. The idea came so swiftly that Mrs. Snow’s mind reeled under its impact. And, at the same moment, she thought of the cigarette she had left burning in the ashtray on the cluttered desk. She had visions of flames curling, creeping through the scattered papers beyond the sealed door. She needed every ounce of courage to keep from screaming and pounding on the smooth metal.

She made herself turn to the shelves of cups. Five years ago, on the day after Gordon’s funeral, she had stored them all away because the memories they conjured up had been too poignant. She had hardly looked at them since. But now they were like old friends. She picked one up. She recognized it at once. Gordon had won it at Marblehead in 1939.

She clutched the delicate stem, feeling the cool firmness of the silver. She would just stand there quietly by the door and think of Marblehead.

Arlene would come. Of course she would come.

“It’s going to be all right,” she said out loud. “It’s going to be all right.”

Arlene Davidson let the telephone drop on its stand and sank luxuriously back against the pillows of her bed. So Mrs. Snow was going away for the weekend. What a break! Four full days of rest. About time, too. She hadn’t had a real vacation since last New Year’s.

Idly Arlene wondered where Mrs. Snow was going. She didn’t visit much any more, not since Mr. Snow passed on. Probably she’d decided to go with the young people to Long Island after all. And yet, that was kind of surprising. After nine years, Arlene knew Mrs. Snow very well. Mrs. Snow didn’t like that Bruce, although she tried to hide that fact. And somehow it was more Mrs. Snow’s style to keep out of their way, not to butt in on her niece’s engagements. Yes, it was funny….

Through the thin partition wall, Arlene could hear the creak of an electric iron. Her sister, Rose, was pressing a dress. Out on 114th Street, the kids were putting up a terrific holler playing ball. Arlene liked to think of everyone else up and about and her lying in bed. It was glamorous. She twisted around and glanced affectionately at the telephone. She was glad she’d had her special phone installed when she moved in with Rose and her husband. It was worth it just for times like this—to reach out, answer, and slip right back into a doze.

Well, thought Arlene lazily, what was she going to do now she was off? It was too bad she’d had that fight with Leroy. Leroy was a nice boy even if he did make her mad. It would have been fine to drive down to Jersey with him. But that was out. She certainly wasn’t going to be the first one to call and make up.

She could, of course, go over to Brooklyn with Rose and Willie. But that’d be kind of dull. A lot of hens sitting around, cackling, drinking tea. Maybe she’d go downtown and do some shopping. There was that blouse in Saks. She had saved almost enough now, and …

Suddenly she thought, It’s Friday today—payday! How crazy she’d been to forget it when Bruce called. And how strange of Mrs. Snow to forget it, too. Mrs. Snow was always such a one for paying regular.

Arlene sat up in bed. Doggone it, if she wanted that blouse she’d have to get right down to Mrs. Snow’s and collect her pay before Mrs. Snow started off. Lying in bed was so pleasant that she toyed with the idea of putting off the whole deal. But common sense got the better of her. With four free days ahead and no Leroy to pick up the checks, she’d need that money desperately before next Tuesday.

She glanced at the phone. Should she call Mrs. Snow and remind her? No, no use wasting money on overcalls. She could depend on Mrs. Snow. Since she hadn’t needed her for the cats, Joe must be staying. Even if she made an early start, Mrs. Snow would leave the money with Joe.

Arlene tumbled reluctantly out of bed, slipped her feet into her feather mules, and climbed into her satin housecoat. She went down the hall to the bathroom, came back, and dressed carefully in her best black suit so as to go right on to Saks.

Her brother-in-law was in the living room, sitting by the window with his feet up, reading the newspaper.

“Man, you’re dressed to kill. Figuring on going to work like that?”

“I’m off. Mrs. Snow’s nephew called. She’s going away for the weekend. I’m just going to collect my pay; then I’m going downtown to pick up a blouse.”

“You and your blouses! What you going to do with all them blouses you got stuffed in your closet already? Coffee’s on the stove.”

“No time. Tell Rose goodbye.”

Arlene waggled her hand at Willie and walked out to the street. It was quickest to take the subway. She made her way daintily through the scrambling throng of children towards the corner. The sunshine was beautiful, just right for the shore. Once she’d collected her money, maybe she’d call up Rosalie and the two of them could …

A tall man in a snappy gabardine suit and a brown Stetson hat was strolling down the street towards her. Arlene glanced at him and froze into dignified haughtiness. At the sight of her, the young man broke into a delighted grin.

“Arlene, baby, I was just coming to see you.”

“I’m sorry, Leroy. I’m in a hurry. Got to go downtown.”

“You working this weekend?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I’m not. But I—”

“Fine. That’s fine. I’ve got the car right around the corner. Run back in, grab a couple of things, and we’ll head off for the Atlantic.”

“But, Leroy, I can’t. I’ve got to go downtown and pick up my pay.”

“What you want with your pay? I got more than enough for both.” Leroy’s hands moved caressingly up her arms. “Arlene, baby, you’re not still mad about the other night? You know better than that. A guy’s got a right to get loaded once in a while. Honey …”

A feeling of warm contentment flowed through Arlene. “Don’t, Leroy. Don’t act like that—not in public.”

“Honey, I’m crazy about you. There isn’t anyone else, never will be, that sends me like you do. Arlene, sugar, you’re not going to stay sore.”

“Well, I …”

“That’s my baby.” Leroy gave her a playful pat. “Go grab your things. I’ll bring the car up.”

“But I ought to go downtown and get my pay. I …” Arlene’s sudden smile was radiant. She put up her hand and twisted his ear. “You, Leroy! You’ll be the death of me before you’re through. Okay. It won’t take me but a couple of minutes to get packed. When you’re ready, honk your horn.”

Mrs. Snow stood by the safe door, straining her ears to catch any noise from the house beyond. It had been hard to keep track of time, but it must be twelve by now. Arlene was always punctual. She let herself in through the back door. Usually she started right away on the breakfast dishes, and then she came up to the study to arrange the dinner menu with Mrs. Snow. Here on the third floor, the study was too far away for Mrs. Snow to hear Arlene’s key in the lock. But surely, if Bruce had left the study door open, she would be able to hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen when the time came.

Quivering, she pressed herself closer against the safe door. But a ship’s siren boomed from the East River, and when it faded, the silence in the house was profound.

Her legs were aching now. It had needed a great deal of will power to stand, quietly relaxed, by the door all this time, but she had managed it. She hadn’t made a futile attempt to escape from a trap she knew was hermetically sealed; she hadn’t let herself think of Bruce; she hadn’t given an inch to her dark fear of the encircling four walls, which lurked constantly at the fringes of her mind; she had refused her imagination any leeway whatsoever.

The yachting cup had helped a lot. Holding it in her hand, she had been able to reconstruct the whole weekend at Marblehead, even to the men who had sat next to her at dinner, the name of that rather interesting lady from Chile, and, of course, her times alone with Gordon.

But now that the hour of release must be so close, she could no longer cling to the soothing unreality of the past. The remorselessly closed door that she had been looking at without seeing suddenly became a closed door again. There was the naked light bulb dangling above her; there, hemming her in, were the shelves of cups on one side and the shelves of papers and files on the other—and the rear wall, with the jewel safe, which backed onto her bedroom.

The air smelled musty. For the first time it was brought home to her that there was no ventilation in the room. Air. Her knees felt thin as water. Arlene! Arlene, you’ve got to come!

That one moment of weakness was enough to crack her defenses. She felt panic pouring into her like a miasmic river fog. If only she knew the time! If only she had her glasses!

Mrs. Snow stepped back until she was standing directly under the ceiling light. She brought her wrist watch up close to her face and then blinked her eyes shut and open again. For one second the dial swam into focus and she saw the hands.

It was twelve forty-five!

Before she could stop it, a little cry forced itself through her lips. The sound of her own voice was split up and echoed back at her from the crowding walls, adding fantasy to terror. Arlene had never, in nine years, been this late. Then she wasn’t coming! Bruce had called to put her off. That meant … that meant …

Face it, Adelaide Snow. Face it. Bruce has deliberately shut you in. How wrong you were! He’s far more criminal than he is stupid. He’s shut you up here so you’ll die, so you won’t be able to expose his sordid, petty dishonesties, so you’ll die.

Mrs. Snow stumbled against the shelves of cups, clinging to them for support. For a moment there was nothing but darkness and horror. The air would grow less and less; thirst would come. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself, days, perhaps, ahead in the future, screaming, beating, beating at the smooth door with torn and blood-spattered fists.

Her hand brushed one of the cups and it was contact with the cup that saved her. It was almost as if some mystic, healing power streamed out of it and through her, bringing her strength from Gordon.

You’ve got to be brave. If you’re not brave everything is lost.

She gritted her teeth as if somehow the enemy, panic, were in her mouth.

There was Lorna. She had told Sylvia to have Lorna call her the moment she came back from sailing, had told her that Lorna was to come home, immediately. Lorna knew she wasn’t a hysterical woman. Lorna would take the call seriously. She would phone. Then, when she got no answer, surely, she would come.

Yes. This was the first time Mrs. Snow had ever made so urgent a demand on her. Lorna would come home. Unless—unless Bruce was already on his way to East Hampton with some lying, plausible story….

Mrs. Snow snapped off the train of thought. She couldn’t afford to think that way. She had to clutch at every hope. Lorna would come. And if she didn’t, hadn’t Joe said he was coming back that evening to pick up the sanding machine? Yes, of course, he had. There was Lorna and Joe. There was nothing to worry about.

Slowly, deliberately coming to terms with reality, Mrs. Snow surveyed the cramped little room that was her prison. The bare cement floor was long enough for her to lie down at full length. She could sleep there if she had to. She could sit down, too. Yes, it would be a good idea to save her legs.

She turned to the shelves and, after careful thought, picked up a large embossed silver cup. She and Gordon had won it together at Nassau.

She sat down on the floor, leaning her back against the metal furnace duct, and rested the cup on her lap. 1935! What a clear, sparkling Caribbean winter it had been; she remembered the very day of the race.

Gradually she began to feel the gentle tug of the breeze at her hair. She was surrounded by blue sea. Off to port, palm trees curved above the glittering silver stretch of beach.

Gordon glanced over his shoulder at her, smiling, his face mahogany-brown from the sun. Yes, there had been salt spray in his hair….

While Larry Emmett puttered around in the moored Star boat, Lorna Mendham climbed out onto the little sun-splashed jetty and dropped down contentedly on her back. The morning sail had been wonderful. The gulls, floating silently against the blue sky above her, were wonderful. Soon Bruce would be arriving. That would be most wonderful of all. Lorna crossed one blue-jeaned knee over the other and wiggled her bare toes. She felt absurdly happy.

That was nothing new. For eighteen months she had been living in a state of constant euphoria. She still marvelled that love could do this. In the old days, there had always been some anxiety or another. She had never been quite sure of her looks, never quite sure that she was making the right impression, never quite sure, even, whether she existed or not. Then Bruce had come into her life.

Maybe she wasn’t just happy, she thought. Maybe she was slap-happy. For, actually, life wasn’t as ideal as it seemed to her. Aunt Addy, in spite of the fact that she tried not to be, was jealous of Bruce and difficult about him, and Bruce, although he was too sweet to admit it, didn’t really get on with Aunt Addy. And he was justified, of course. It was bad for them to be living in Aunt Addy’s house, tied to her apron strings. Aunt Addy was bossy. She did like to organize everything. If Lorna had been really enterprising, they would have moved out months ago. But Lorna was too happy to be enterprising. Poor Aunt Addy! Now that Uncle Gordon was dead, she had no one to love except Lorna. Why not humor her for a while at least? There was more than enough happiness to go round.

But Aunt Addy should be disciplined. Bruce was right about that. She had to be taught that just because she had the money, it gave her no right to keep them jumping all the time.

Lorna rolled over onto her stomach. The jetty planks beneath her were rough and warm. There was a delicious smell of brine, seaweed, and tar.

Bruce! mused Lorna. Her whole mind, body, and spirit were saturated with the thought of her husband.

Sylvia Emmett, in a white sweater and black slacks, was hurrying down the jetty towards her. Lorna was too indolent to get up. She waved casually. Soon Sylvia’s calves appeared at her eye level.

“Hi,” said Lorna.

“Lorna, your aunt called. You’re to call her right back. She says it’s terribly important. She wants you to come home at once.”

It seemed to Lorna that the jetty rocked queasily under her. She jumped up. “What’s the matter? It isn’t Bruce?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Has Bruce come?”

“Not yet.”

Lorna started running down the jetty. She saw now that her happiness had been an omen of disaster. Bruce! Something dreadful had happened to Bruce! Why, oh, why, just because an extra morning sail had seemed so tempting, had she come down ahead of him with Sylvia? It was the first time since their marriage that she had spent the night away from him. How could she have been so crazy? It was all her fault.

She reached the end of the jetty and started to run through the garden towards the house. As she came, panting, up to the drive, she saw Bruce’s green convertible swinging to the front door.

Her heart leaped with joy. She ran to the car, reaching it just as Bruce was climbing out. She threw herself into his arms. He swung her up in the air, kissing her cheek, her lips.

“Hi, babe. What a reception!”

“Bruce, you’re all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“Aunt Addy called. She said it was terribly important. She said I was to go back at once. I was sure something had happened to you.”

“Oh, that!”

Bruce set her down on her feet again. He was grinning. There was something about his smile, thought Lorna. It was all gaiety. When Bruce was smiling, it was impossible to remember that anyone in the world could be lonely or miserable.

“Bruce, what does Aunt Addy want?”

“Just one of her brainstorms.”

“Brainstorms?”

“When we were going through the mail this morning, she got onto the sapphire ring again. She started figuring that if it had been stolen, maybe some of her other jewels had been stolen, too. She went into the vault, opened the wall safe, and searched through her jewel box. She practically had hysterics. Her emeralds were missing.”

Bruce reached into the back of the car and brought out his brief case.

“You can imagine the scene. She came barging out of the safe, screaming, ‘We’ve been robbed. Burglars!’ She was going to call the police. She was going to call you and bring you right back as a witness. At least I managed to get her to call you before the police. Thank God I did, because …”

He started to laugh. Lorna, infected, found herself laughing, too. “Because—what, Bruce?”

“You’ve guessed the pay-off, of course. We found the emeralds in the drawer of her vanity in the bedroom. She’d worn them the other night to the Silsons’. And not only that, the sapphire ring—”

“She didn’t find that, too?”

“Sure. Down in the upholstery of the chaise longue.”

They were both laughing uncontrollably now.

“That’s funny,” moaned Lorna. “That’s really funny because I searched in the chaise longue. I spent hours digging down, and it was there all the time!”

“She’s a card, your Aunt Addy. A real card. Getting old, I guess. Memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“Poor, darling Aunt Addy.” Lorna drew away from her husband. “I guess I should call her, anyway.”

“She’s probably forgotten all about it by now.” Bruce’s face was serious again. “Listen, babe, call her if you like. You know me. I never want to butt in. But—do you think it’s wise? I mean, always letting her feel she can push you around whenever the spirit moves her? After all, just because she got in a swivet, she didn’t think twice about calling you and scaring you to death for fear something had happened to me.”

Lorna remembered her terrible moment on the jetty. That had been Aunt Addy’s fault. “Yes, Bruce, you’re right. She’s got to learn sooner or later that I’m a grown-up person with a life of my own. If she wants to talk to me, let her call back.”

“Check, babe.” Bruce slipped his arm around her waist. “Where’re Larry and Sylvia?”

“Down on the jetty.”

“Let’s corral them. After all this excitement, I could do with a martini.”

Mrs. Snow sat crouched on the floor by the furnace duct. She had one of the yachting cups in her hand. Every second or so, she tapped rhythmically with it against the metal of the duct.

It seemed now as if she had been in the vault for days, but it had been only six hours. Five minutes before, she had stood once again under the ceiling light and blinked her eyes at her watch. It was five o’clock.

Lorna wasn’t coming. She had resigned herself to that.

The phone had rung several times. Its insistent ring had been harder to endure than the silence. But, even if one of the calls had been from Lorna, she wasn’t coming. At most, it took two and a half hours to drive up from the Emmetts’. If Lorna had returned from sailing at lunch time, Sylvia would have given her the message right away. If Lorna had been coming, she would have come at once.

No, her worst suspicions had been confirmed. Bruce had called Arlene and put her off. Bruce had hurried to East Hampton and had managed to convince Lorna that Mrs. Snow’s phone call had been a false alarm.

Joe Polansky was her only hope. Joe had said he was coming for the sanding machine tonight. She knew his habits. He ate supper at six. Probably he would help his wife with the dishes and then come uptown. He could scarcely arrive before eight. But she was taking no chances. Since four o’clock she had been tapping on the duct.

The duct had been her one big break. Three years ago, when she had had the new heating system installed, she had made the engineers bring the unsightly duct up through the vault. It led to the cellar where the sanding machine was stored. Even if Joe didn’t come up into the house looking for her, he would certainly hear the tapping.

For minutes, while she sat there tapping, Mrs. Snow had been trying to accustom herself to the fact that calculated wickedness was not just something that one read about in the papers, that one vaguely knew existed but that could never rear up in one’s own life. She had always thought of herself as a worldly-wise woman who had been everywhere and seen almost all there was to see. She realized now how Gordon’s love and, later, Gordon’s money had kept her almost as naïve as a child.

Bruce had been living here in the house with her for over a year. Although, for Lorna’s sake, she had tried to blind herself, she had seen through his conceit, his cupidity, his false charm. She had finally exposed him as a thief. But, even when she was accusing him to his face, she had never dreamed that he was anything more than stupid and dishonest. Mortal danger had lurked there, and she hadn’t caught a glimpse of it.

Even now it was almost inconceivable to her that someone she knew, her own niece’s husband, could be—this! A man who could shut a woman up in a vault and leave her to die!

The horror of that knowledge was worse than the claustrophobia, worse than the haunting realization of an everyday, bustling Manhattan, stretching all around her little prison cell, going about its business totally ignorant of and unconcerned with her predicament.

But she was free from panic now because of Joe. Bruce thought he had been so clever, but he hadn’t known about Joe and the sanding machine. Joe was the ace up her sleeve. The thought of him gave her a tense, gambler’s thrill. She was playing poker, and she was going to win. Her normal, energetic optimism had reasserted itself.

Of course she was going to win.

She rapped sharply on the duct with the silver cup. It was strange. She had thought thirst would come before hunger. But it wasn’t so. She didn’t feel thirsty at all, but for some time now she had felt a nagging hunger in her stomach. That was because she had had no breakfast. She had been too eager to get up to the study with the bank statement before Bruce came down and caught her.

Very faintly, from somewhere far off in the house, she heard the sound of wailing. The cats! She had hardly thought about them all day. Poor Chiang and Mei-Ling! They were used to getting their dinner at five o’clock. If ever Arlene was even a few minutes later, they always howled like banshees. They were down in the kitchen now, prowling.

Mrs. Snow felt a sudden excitement. The moment Joe arrived, the cats would go hurtling down to the cellar, yowling, scolding, demanding food. Joe knew their ways as well as she herself did. Even without the tapping, he would be sure to guess something was wrong and investigate immediately.

The tapping, the cats. Everything would be all right. Of course it would….

Because Joe would come. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind about that. She knew Mrs. Polansky. For years she had had Joe completely under her thumb. If Mrs. Polansky wanted her floors scraped this weekend, scraped they would be.

And not just that! Joe would want to come tonight, if only to get away for a while from home. Mrs. Snow knew how fond Joe was of her. He fussed over her almost as if she were his sister. She and the house were really his whole life. His little room in the cellar was his asylum, his refuge from his wife’s nagging.

Mrs. Snow felt an odd, cosmic calm. Now that there was no longer any reason to be afraid, she could see that this dreadful experience was not only a punishment for her own error of judgment, it was also a blessing in disguise. Lorna was so infatuated with Bruce that it was perfectly possible she might have forgiven him for the forgeries. But she would never be able to forgive the man who had tried to murder her aunt.

This, Mrs. Snow told herself, was just another instance of the devious way life worked for the best. Soon Bruce would be in jail, and Lorna, cured of her obsession, would be free of him. Free to pick up once again that happy, untroubled existence that she and her aunt had enjoyed before the wedding.

No, she mustn’t think selfishly like that. Free to find a decent young man who honestly loved her and would make her a worthy husband.

The hunger pains were troubling her again. Mrs. Snow tapped the cup against the furnace duct.

Downstairs she could hear the faint but insistent crying of the cats.

Joe Polansky came out of the kitchen and sat down cautiously on one of his wife’s new electric-blue lounge chairs. Supper had made him sleepy. He would have liked to relax for a while. He couldn’t, of course. He had to go uptown for Mrs. Snow’s sanding machine.

Not that he could have relaxed around here, anyway. In the old days, it had been bad enough. What you up to now, Joe? Joe, how many times I got to tell you not to smoke that stinking pipe in here? But the old days had been paradise to what it was now. Joe felt a bitter resentment against Minna’s sister in Jersey for dying the month before and leaving her two thousand dollars. Ever since, there’d been no peace. The fancy new living-room suite with those lace things on the arms; talk, talk, talk, about drapes and plants in pots and heaven knows what. And the floor!

Joe glanced down at the chipped, uneven boards at his feet. No amount of sanding was going to make them look like anything but what they were—cheap, old, worn-out, cold-water-flat flooring. But you couldn’t tell Minna that!

“Ready, Joe?”

Minna bustled into the living room. Her new permanent wave had piled her hair into a cone of tight grey curls. Even her face looked different after that beauty treatment. Kind of tight, too, like it would split, maybe, if she smiled. She had a five-dollar bill in her hand.

“Here. I don’t have any singles. You’ll have to take this. But mind, now. Just the taxi coming back with the machine. You take the subway up like always.”

Joe accepted the bill and rose obediently. Years ago—Joe had never been able to find out when—he had given up trying to assert himself with Minna. Maybe it had been when they didn’t have any children and the doctor said it was his fault. And then, maybe, Minna had always been such a big girl and him so small. Joe didn’t know exactly how it had happened. But it had, and because he was ashamed of having lost his manhood, he was too proud to fight his way back.

“Now, don’t you let Mrs. Snow talk you into doing any chores up there tonight. I know the way she is. I want you back here and in bed early so you can get a good start tomorrow on the floors.”

Mrs. Polansky followed him out onto the landing. She loomed massively over the stair rail as he started down.

“Get the little machine, too, the one for the tables. And you come straight on back, now. No dawdling around. Joe—do you hear me?”

Hear her! Wasn’t anyone on the block, practically, who couldn’t hear her!

It was pleasant in the street. A real mild evening. Joe always felt better the moment he was out of the apartment. He thought affectionately of Mrs. Snow’s household. Arlene would be finishing up after dinner now. Soon she’d be off. It wasn’t right, Mrs. Snow staying all night there in that big house by herself. He was glad he was going to drop in. He could make sure everything was okay.

He turned into Sixth Avenue and started through the crowds towards the subway. The image of Mrs. Snow was still in his mind. Sometimes he didn’t know what he’d do if it weren’t for Mrs. Snow and the friendly, familiar world of her cellar. He thought of her sitting there in the study that morning. Go off and have a good Labor Day spree, Joe. A spree! Imagine Minna ever suggesting a spree! Minna, who took every cent of his pay except for carfare and didn’t even allow a bottle of beer in the house.

He passed the bright, neon-lit entrance to a bar. A sailor and a girl turned sharply in front of him and disappeared through the swinging doors. Heck, it was Labor Day weekend. Everyone having a good time. Joe hesitated at the door, the impulse to revolt stirred unexpectedly in him. Must be close to six months since he’d been inside a bar. He touched the five-dollar bill in his pocket. Minna could never figure out the taxi fare down to the last dime.

A little man in a blue raincoat, not unlike himself, pushed past into the bar. Joe Polansky followed him in.

It was just an ordinary tavern, cosy, cheerful, with customers scattered along the bar. A jukebox was blaring. Way down in back a guy was singing and dancing on television. Joe went to the bar and ordered a beer.

Unintentionally he had sat next to the little man who had come in ahead of him and who was ordering a shot of rye. They glanced at each other. The little man beamed and gestured to the barman.

“Jack, this gentleman’s beer’s on me.”

“Oh, no,” said Joe.

“What you mean, no? This beer’s on me and the next and the next and the next. I’m celebrating. A guy can’t celebrate alone.” The little man leaned closer on his stool and put an arm around Joe’s shoulder. “Know something, old-timer? I’m a granddaddy. My first grandson. Born just a couple of hours ago. Eight pounds. A fine boy. What you know about that, brother? Danny Carson’s the name.”

Joe was usually shy with strangers, but Mrs. Snow’s word spree had infected him with a sense of adventure. This was a spree—this casual, friendly meeting, all this noise, the chattering voices, the tangy taste of the beer. And it didn’t seem like you had to figure out things to say to Danny, either. He did all the talking—all about his daughter and what a fine girl she was and what a fine steady boy she’d married and how the nurses at the hospital had said they’d never seen a finer-looking baby.

Joe finished his beer and accepted another. His spirits were soaring. What a real friendly guy Danny was! And what a fine life he led with all those kids and now the grandson and …

Suddenly Joe remembered Minna. He glanced at the clock. Gee, he’d been in here a half hour already. Danny’s arm was on his shoulder again.

“Heck,” he said, “I gotta go. Gotta pick up a sanding machine for my wife—or will I catch hell!”

“Catch hell!” Danny gave a resounding guffaw. “Hey,” he called to the bar at large, “hear that? Here’s a guy so scared of his wife he’s gotta pick up a sanding machine.”

No one paid much attention, but the barman, who happened to be standing in front of them, gave a knowing smile. Joe felt himself blushing with anger and shame. Of course they were all laughing at him. Why shouldn’t they? These guys that came here were real guys. They didn’t let themselves get pushed around by their wives. They could have as many sprees as they liked.

Spree! That word and the two beers were just enough to prod his rankling pride. Minna and her “no-dawdling-mind-you-come-straight-home”! What did Minna think he was, anyway? A mouse?

To hell with the sanding machine! He’d pick it up when he was ready.

He turned to Danny, slapping him boldly on the back. His whole body glowed with the warmth of liberation.

“Drink up, Grandpappy. The next round’s on me.”

It was twelve o’clock—midnight. Mrs. Snow stood under the ceiling light. She was pressing her hand against her mouth to keep from screaming.

Hour by hour, as her hopes of Joe’s coming grew less and less, fear had begun to get a grip on her. It had invaded her inch by inch, overwhelming her hunger pains, subduing even the nagging thirst that had come soon enough to plague her. Now it had complete control of her. She had never known such a fear could exist. It was like a terrible, obscene insect inside her, coiling around her heart, sliding up her spine, chewing, sucking at her brain.

Joe wasn’t going to come. He hadn’t just lingered at home, missed his subway, or decided to walk. He wasn’t going to come.

In Mrs. Snow’s terror-struck mind, Bruce had become a figure of more than human evil and cunning. Somehow Bruce had found out about Joe and had seduced him—just as he had seduced Arlene and Lorna. There was no hope now.

No hope. No hope. The words thumped in her with the thumping of her heart. Above her, the ceiling seemed slowly to be descending. The walls were stalking, creeping towards her. The sparkling yachting cups that once had brought comfort were nightmares now, death offerings sealed with the corpse in the tomb. This was a tomb. She was buried alive.

She was going to die.

Panic surged through her like the huge, sweeping waves of a storm at sea. Waves! In her extremity, Mrs. Snow clung to the image of waves. This wasn’t fear; it was water, cold, clear sea water pounding over her. She was in a sailboat; she was trapped in a northeasterly gale. But you could fight a storm in a boat. With strength, with daring, you could fight….

With immense effort, Mrs. Snow met panic head on and slowly, grimly, in a hand-to-hand battle, subdued it. First the scream faded from her throat; then the tension slackened; then, panting, damp with sweat, exhausted, she stood there quietly—herself again.

But it was a new self, purged of false hope, whose strength was in its resignation.

If I’m going to die, she told herself, I’m going to die. There’s nothing so terrible about a sixty-year-old woman dying.

Now that she had accepted the probability of death, she found she could start, on a different level, to hope again. Something could always happen. Lorna, for some quite separate reason, might come back earlier. And then there was dear old Hilary Prynne. Hilary, as Gordon’s best friend, ritualistically arrived every Saturday to take Adelaide Snow to lunch at the Plaza. She had remembered Hilary earlier in the day, but she had been so sure of Joe that she hadn’t thought much about him. Certainly he would come tomorrow. He would ring the bell. Since the lunch date was such a ritual with them, he would surely suspect something was wrong.

Yes, something could still happen to save her. But the important thing was to conserve her strength. She must try to sleep.

Mrs. Snow glanced up at the ceiling bulb. How long did a bulb last? She had no idea. It would be hard to lie there in the stifling little room in total darkness, but it would be far worse if the bulb were to burn out. She reached up and twisted the bulb. Darkness fell on her like a wet tarpaulin.

She dropped down to her knees and then stretched out on the cement floor. She tried to imagine she was in the cabin of Gordon’s cruiser. That was the only boxlike area in which she had never felt constricted.

She was in the cabin; the boat was rocking gently; and—yes—Gordon was in the bunk next to her.

But the illusion didn’t quite work. The thirst was bad again. She could bear it. It wasn’t any worse, really, than a toothache. Insidiously, however, hope started to undermine her again. It whispered to her that Bruce couldn’t possibly have known about Joe and the sanding machine. Joe hadn’t come that evening because of some perfectly normal domestic reason. A party, perhaps. But whatever happened, Mrs. Polansky was going to see to it that her floors were scraped that weekend.

Yes, Joe would be there in the morning, early. She reached her hand through the darkness, groping for the cup she had dropped. She must have it near her. She must be ready to tap again on the duct for Joe.

A little after three, Joe Polansky stood by the subway stairs, watching Danny weave downward.

“’Bye, Danny. See you tomorrow, Danny. ’Bye, old pal.”

Joe was happier than he’d ever been in his life. He and Danny must have hit pretty near every bar in the neighborhood before they were through. And Danny had invited him over to Jersey tomorrow for an all-day party to celebrate the grandson. He’d found a friend. A real pal. Somewhere to go where he would always be welcome. Everything was wonderful, rosy, and friendly.

Suddenly, as he stood there, swaying slightly, Joe Polansky thought of Mrs. Snow. Minna and the sanding machine had dissolved from his mind hours ago, but off and on all evening he’d thought of Mrs. Snow. There she was, all alone in that big house. It wasn’t right. What if burglars came? And why wouldn’t they come with all those valuable things lying around? Immense warmth for Mrs. Snow spread through him. She never pushed him around. There was no do-this, do-that about her. Go off, Joe, and have a wonderful spree.

His affection and his anxiety for Mrs. Snow merged. It seemed perfectly clear what he had to do. She needed a man in the house to protect her. That was him—Joe. He was the man in Mrs. Snow’s house. The thought of his little cellar room was inviting, too. No Minna raging and stomping. Minna made him tired.

He climbed down the subway steps. He reached the turnstile. He felt in one pocket and then another. Fumblingly he started the procedure all over again. Then it dawned on him. Who could expect a miserable five bucks to last long on a spree? Wasn’t a penny left.

That was that, then. Poor Mrs. Snow. She’d have to spend the night all alone. Well, couldn’t be helped. It was home—and Minna.

As he climbed the steps again, he felt an unexpected excitement. It was better to go home, anyway. About time he told Minna a thing or two. High time.

He had trouble getting his key into the apartment-door lock. He was still poking around with it when the door was flung open. Minna stood there in her nightdress, huge, bosomy, purple in the face.

“Joe Polansky. Drunk! Of all things! Drunk! Where’s my sanding machine?”

With great dignity, Joe pushed past her into the hallway.

Minna swung around, grabbing at him. “You! You should be ashamed! And my money! Where’s my five dollars?”

“Spent it.”

“You spent my poor dead sister’s money on liquor? Joe Polansky—you listen to me—”

Joe turned slowly and faced his wife. He was the gay buckaroo of the movies, with the slightly arched eyebrows and the jaunty little smile.

“And you, Minna Polansky, just listen to me. If you want that sanding machine, okay, go get it yourself. Me, I’m gonna sleep. That’s what I’m gonna do. And tomorrow, when I’m good and ready, I’m getting up and I’m going to Jersey, to a party, to my friend’s house. Good ol’ Danny. Floors! Getting your floors scraped! Think you’re Mrs. Rockefeller?”

The new blue sofa beckoned invitingly. There was more to say to Minna—a lot more. But Joe was losing track of it. He crossed to the couch and with a little sigh dropped down on it, tucking his legs up under him.

“Joe, my sofa! Joe, your filthy shoes!”

Minna was bending over him, clutching at his shoulders, tugging at him. With all his force Joe shoved her away so that she went skittering heavily backward across the room.

“Cow,” he said blissfully. “Stupid old fat cow.”

Mrs. Snow woke up in utter darkness, her heart pounding like a piston. Panic had been with her in her uneasy sleep, and instantly, before she could marshal her control, it had her by the throat. She jumped up. She was so weak that she almost fell, but she steadied herself. Shivering all over, she groped through the blackness until she found the electric bulb and twisted it on.

The light came blindingly, but it managed to check her panic a little. She blinked her eyes and went through the agonizing procedure of consulting her watch. It was harder than yesterday, but at last she managed to make the little hands come into focus. Five forty-five. Morning already.

Joe might be here any minute now. She would have to start tapping.

She turned to pick up the cup from the floor, and once again she stumbled. Dizziness and nausea swept through her.

Suddenly it dawned on her that it was the air. The air was thick and fetid, with a sickeningly sweet aftertaste. She had to gasp to take it into her lungs, and each time it made her want to gag. She had never dreamed the air would fail her so soon. Here was a new enemy, far more lethal than hunger or thirst.

Standing there, supporting herself against the shelves of cups, she almost surrendered to panic.

“Gordon!” She found herself gasping out her husband’s name. “Gordon! Gordon, help me!”

Her own voice, hoarse, almost insane-sounding, was another enemy. Was she mad already? She knew Gordon wasn’t there. She knew …

She dropped down on all fours, picked up the fallen cup, and crawled with it to the duct. Panting at the foul air, she pressed her ear against the aluminum. Was that a sound? Her body stiffened. Was that…? It came again, and she recognized it. It was only the cats. The cats were down in the cellar—crying.

She started to sob. She couldn’t control herself. The sobs heaved up through her. Automatically, while she sobbed, she rapped the cup against the duct. Air, she thought. Air. I want air.

She imagined the air, less than an inch away from her, beyond the thin metal of the duct, great draughts of clean, cool air billowing up from the cellar. The duct! Aluminum! Suddenly she was herself again. The duct! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? If she could cut through …

There was a metal paper knife that she always kept by the files. She got up. The sobs had dwindled now to a whimpering she hardly noticed. She crossed to the file, riffled through the scattered papers, and found the knife. She tested the blade. Yes, it was strong. She dropped down again by the duct. The hollow metal shaft was built in sections, rounded by the floor and then stretching up in a straight column to the ceiling. She chose a spot on the surface at random and stabbed the knife at it with all her strength.

The knife snapped in two. The top half of the broken blade fell with a little tinkle on the cement at her side.

She squatted, staring at it, her lips trembling. Despair seemed to give her vision an uncanny keenness. She saw the broken blade; she saw every little pit and flaw in the cement surface below it. And, for the first time, she found herself really looking at the duct as an object. There was a break between the concave lower section and the straight section above it. Around the break, connecting the two, had been wound a narrow strip of aluminum. The end of the belt of metal had been bent back against itself.

Mrs. Snow slipped the broken knife under the end of the metal strip and pried it up. She found she could quite easily pull the whole strip off. And not only that. The top section of the duct was loose now. Feverishly she tugged at it and bent it sideways. It freed itself scrapingly from the lower section. And there, gaping in front of her like a great black mouth, was the exposed interior of the duct.

For a second, her success stunned her. Then, avidly, she leaned over the hole, drinking in great draughts of air. It was wonderful; it was ecstasy; it was champagne.

Mrs. Snow felt her whole body purged, cleansed as by a wind from the sea.

“Joe!” she called down the duct.

She could hear her voice tumbling, echoing, down the shaft.

“Joe! Joe!”

She started to giggle and then to laugh—hysterically, drunkenly. She clung to the broken duct, laughing and sobbing.

And each time she laughed, she felt the fresh, cold, life-restoring air.

Lorna Mendham lit her first cigarette of the day while she listened absently to Sylvia’s chatter across the white iron terrace breakfast table. Larry was already down at the jetty, fiddling with the boat. Bruce wasn’t down yet. It always took him so long to dress.

For the first time since her marriage, Lorna’s happiness was clouded. Sylvia was her oldest friend. She and Larry had just come back from two years at the embassy in Rome. They hadn’t been at the wedding; they had hardly met Bruce before this weekend.

And now they didn’t like him.

They hadn’t said anything, of course. They were far too well-mannered for that. But Lorna had suspected it last night, and now she was sure of it. They were being much too formal, much too eager to make charm.

Damn them! thought Lorna. They were just like Aunt Addy. They thought they were so emancipated, but they were all of them stuck in their dreary little social-register rut. What difference did it make that Bruce hadn’t been to the right schools or that, possibly because that made him self-conscious with people like the Emmetts, he did try to show off a bit? Of course, it had been silly of him to go on quite so long last night about all his glamorous friends on the Riviera. But couldn’t Sylvia and Larry see through that? Didn’t they have enough instinct to sense that he wasn’t just good-looking, that he was considerate and kind and—and true? Oh, no, just because he wasn’t “one of us,” they were suspicious.

Sylvia was rambling on about the antiques she had brought back from Italy. Suddenly Lorna was ashamed of her own depression and irritation. It was foolish to take it all so hard. The Emmetts would come around to Bruce in the end. Of course they would. Everyone did. She forced herself to take an intelligent interest in what Sylvia was saying.

“Darling, it’s disastrous about that divine Venetian desk. It was perfect when we bought it in Milan. Now the front of one whole drawer is split. Those terrible shippers! And it’s quite impossible to get a good cabinetmaker any more. We’ve tried and tried.”

“Aunt Addy has a wonderful man.”

“How marvellous.” Sylvia leaned across the table. “What’s his name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“Then be an angel. Call Mrs. Snow this minute. I’ll plead with him on bended knee to come down next week.”

“All right.”

Lorna found she was glad to have a legitimate opportunity for telephoning Aunt Addy. She agreed with Bruce, of course, that Aunt Addy should be disciplined. But even so, she still felt a little guilty about yesterday. Even though Aunt Addy was difficult, it wasn’t really fair to treat her like a naughty child.

As she got up and moved across the terrace, Bruce appeared through the French windows. He was looking very handsome in white sharkskin slacks with a red scarf knotted exquisitely above an open silk shirt. As always, Lorna felt that exciting catch in her throat when she saw him. But at the same time, quite unexpectedly, an image came of Larry Emmett down at the boat in dirty old blue jeans and a T-shirt. For a second she saw Bruce through Sylvia’s eyes. She was horrified with herself and ran to him.

He caught her in his arms and kissed her. “Good morning again, darling. Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to call Aunt Addy. Sylvia wants the address of her cabinet fixer.”

Bruce’s arms tightened around her so suddenly that she almost cried out. Then, very quietly, he said, “But do you know Mrs. Lindsay’s number?”

“Mrs. Lindsay?”

His grip had relaxed now. One of his hands was caressing her neck. “Isn’t that her name—the old friend of Aunt Addy’s who lived in Copenhagen or somewhere?”

“But what has Mrs. Lindsay got to do with it?”

He pushed her away, grinning down at her. “Miss Addlepate.”

“Bruce, what are you talking about?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m sure I did. Mrs. Lindsay called up yesterday right in the middle of the emerald scare. She’s back and rented a house in Connecticut. Aunt Addy was invited for the weekend. She was taking the afternoon train.”

Lorna looked at him, puzzled. She hadn’t known Mrs. Lindsay was planning to come back to the States. And she was sure Bruce hadn’t said anything about it yesterday. He must have forgotten in all the fuss of the burglar story.

“Where is she in Connecticut, Bruce?”

“Gosh, Aunt Addy did tell me. Is it Litchfield? Redding?”

“Never mind, Lorna.” Sylvia’s voice sounded behind her. “The man couldn’t do anything till Tuesday, anyway.”

“All right,” said Lorna.

But it was strange. Surely Mrs. Lindsay would have written Aunt Addy to say she was coming back, and surely Aunt Addy would have mentioned it. And then for one moment Bruce had seemed so odd. Was it possible that he was making the whole story up because he still didn’t want her to spoil Aunt Addy and was reluctant to say so in front of Sylvia?

Lorna was shocked at so disloyal a thought, and her irritation against the Emmetts returned. It was all Sylvia’s fault. If it hadn’t been for Sylvia she would never have dreamed up such a preposterous idea. Of course Aunt Addy was with Mrs. Lindsay.

“You’d better hurry with your breakfast, Bruce,” Sylvia was saying. “Larry’s been down at the boat for hours.”

Still crouched by the broken furnace duct, Mrs. Snow had finally lost her mood of elation and hope. She had called Joe’s name down the shaft at regular intervals, even called the cats’ names and heard their mournful answering wails reverberating up from the cellar. She had written notes, too. Joe, Bruce has locked me in the vault. She knew there was a vent in the cellar. The notes might just come to rest by the open grille, and Joe might just notice the unexpected paper there. She had felt gay, almost frivolous.

But gradually it had all started to change again. Air wasn’t enough. As hour followed hour and Joe didn’t come, the shelves of cups seemed once again to be creeping menacingly towards her. Thirst became terrible, thickening her tongue, parching her lips, bringing nausea. Her voice calling “Joe” was a feeble, painful croak. She gave up calling and started to tap with the cup instead. She needed all the strength that was left to fight against despair.

For, although she went on tapping, she had given up Joe. False hope, she knew, was her most dangerous enemy. Now she was thinking only of Hilary Prynne. Certainly Hilary would come. And he would come at exactly twelve-thirty. He was never a minute early or late for their ritual lunch engagement. At twelve-thirty she would hear the front doorbell ring.

Only a few minutes ago she had dragged herself to the center of the vault under the ceiling light and, finally, had been able to read the watch.

Twelve-fifteen.

Now it must be almost twelve-thirty. Her knees were aching from her constricted position by the duct, but she hardly noticed it any more. She clung grimly to the duct’s broken mouth, waiting—waiting for her last chance.

Suddenly it came—the sound of the front-door buzzer, echoing up from the cellar below. She lurched over the black mouth of the duct and, recklessly expending her tiny reserve of vitality, started to scream:

“Help! Help! Hilary—help!”

For a moment it seemed to her that her voice was like thunder, rolling down the duct, billowing back to her. Outside in the street, Hilary could hear. Surely, Hilary would hear.

The front-door buzzer sounded again.

“Help! Help! Oh, help!”

Her voice sounded deafening to her. And, crazily, it seemed to go on shrilling long after her lips were closed.

Then, suddenly, she understood. It wasn’t her voice she was hearing. It was the cats answering her from the cellar. Her own voice was hardly stronger than a whisper.

It was completely drowned by the high, sour yowling of the cats.

Hilary Prynne stood at the front door of Mrs. Snow’s house. He had dressed, as always, with the greatest care. In his hand he held a small florist’s box containing a single white orchid. Adelaide loved white flowers.

The crisp sunlight shone on his pink, distinguished, benevolent face. He was feeling particularly jaunty, but then the prospect of seeing Adelaide always acted as a tonic. They would lunch at the Plaza, of course; and then perhaps Adelaide might enjoy a carriage drive in the park. They would have until five, because his train to his weekend hosts’ in Hartford didn’t leave until six and he had already checked his suitcase at Grand Central.

As he pressed the door buzzer, a daring thought came. Wasn’t this, perhaps, the right moment to ask Adelaide to marry him? Poor old Gordon had been gone now for over five years. Hilary toyed deliciously with the idea of having Adelaide always with him. Of course, it would be difficult after all these years to give up his bachelor habits. But think of the compensations—Adelaide’s wonderful flair for companionship, her cool, clear mind, her ability to make decisions.

His thought chain broke. What was the matter with Maggie? She usually answered the door so promptly.

He pressed the buzzer again, and as he did so, he heard a strange sound from inside the house. Alarm spread through him. It was almost like someone crying.

He leaned closer, pressing his ear to the door. He heard the sound again. Oh, it was only the cats. Hilary’s mouth pursed in faint distaste. He had a horror of cats. Certainly, if he married Adelaide, he would, very tactfully, of course, ease the cats out of the establishment.

He rang the buzzer a third time. Then he remembered. Adelaide had told him on the phone the other day that Maggie was sick. Adelaide must have given the cook the day off, and she was all alone. Upstairs, primping, probably.

He rang the buzzer again. The sound of the cats’ wailing was much nearer now. They must have run up to the door. During the long, dead pause that followed, Hilary’s alarm increased. What if Adelaide were all alone there and something had happened! A fall in the bathtub, perhaps, or … or …

For surely she must be there. If she had gone away for the weekend she would have called. Their lunch dates were as important to her as to him.

He put his finger on the buzzer and kept it there. He could hear the shrill of the bell merging with the screaming of the cats. He glanced over his shoulder. A policeman was strolling down the sidewalk across the street.

Hilary started down the steps and hurried towards the officer. Adelaide must have had an accident. That was the only explanation. They would have to break down the door, get a doctor, get …

He called, “Officer.”

The policeman turned. It was only then that Hilary realized what must have happened. He’d flown in late from Baltimore last night. He’d been too tired to consult the pad of telephone messages that had been left for him. That morning, in his hurry to get ready for Adelaide, he’d never thought of looking at it.

Of course. Adelaide had been called unexpectedly away and had left a message. He just hadn’t seen it. That was all. Years of decorous life as a banker had given Hilary Prynne a horror of scenes. How monstrously embarrassing if he had actually broken down Adelaide’s front door, caused a scandal with the police, and … The very thought of it made him hot and cold all over.

“Yes, sir?” The policeman was standing in front of him.

Hilary’s pink face grew a trifle pinker. “I’m sorry to trouble you, officer, but do you happen to have the correct time?”

It was too bad to have missed Adelaide. But he would see her next week, and this way he would get up to Hartford in plenty of time for dinner.

The Yacht Club orchestra was playing “Goodnight, Sweetheart.” Lorna was on the dance floor in Bruce’s arms. This should have been another blissful end to another blissful day. Bruce had danced with her all evening. He had never been more loving, more tender. The usual magic was almost as potent as ever. But that little worm of doubt that had first stirred at breakfast was still boring. Lorna hated herself for it, but she couldn’t suppress the feeling that Bruce was being deliberately loving, deliberately tender, as if …

Somehow it all seemed to center around Aunt Addy. She had brought up Mrs. Lindsay again, quite casually, when they were alone in their room after sailing, and—Had it been her imagination? Or hadn’t she sensed—well, a falseness, a falseness in the soothing tone of his voice, the sudden “sincere” steadiness of his eyes. She had drunk more cocktails than usual before dinner to try to forget it all. But it hadn’t worked.

It was all absurdly unimportant, of course. But it frightened her. Love and complete trust in marriage meant the same thing to Lorna.

The music stopped. Bruce’s lips brushed her cheek.

“Come on, babe. One for the road.”

The club bar was crowded. Bruce left Lorna on the fringes of the laughing, chattering groups and pushed forward to order the drinks. Glancing after him, Lorna noticed idly that he had ended up next to a man she had never seen before, a big, red-faced man with carroty hair. The man turned to Bruce with a beam of recognition.

“Well, well, Bruce, old fellow, so you didn’t end up in a block of cement in the East River, after all!” He gave a booming laugh. “Boy, was I glad not to be in your shoes the other day! Almost was, too. Almost bet my shirt on that little filly. Five thousand smackers in the red! How in hell did you raise the dough?” The laugh, thickened with alcohol, boomed again. “But then, of course, I was forgetting. You married you a bank roll, didn’t you? That’s the way to do it! Nothing like a rich wife when you play around in that league.”

Lorna heard every word as if it had been bellowed in her ear, and in the same instant she saw Bruce’s face, caught completely off guard, growing gaunt and grey with fear. Fear—it was the only word. Quickly he twisted away from the man, holding the drinks high over the crowding shoulders. Before she could turn away, his eyes caught hers. He knew she had heard.

He brought the drink to her. There was a sickly smile on his lips. “Lorna …”

He stopped abruptly, for Sylvia and Larry were hurrying towards them.

“Drink up, children. Time to go home.”

In the car driving back to the Emmetts’, Lorna was in the front seat with Larry. She was grateful for the darkness and Larry’s mellow silence. She felt a dreadful hollow in the pit of her stomach.

What had Bruce done?

He had lost five thousand dollars on the races and somehow raised the money to pay off his losses. She knew that now. That in itself was a complete shock. She hadn’t even known he bet on horses. But that wasn’t all. There was his uneasiness about Aunt Addy. He couldn’t possibly have known they would run into that man. It couldn’t have been the man that had been worrying him. Then …

Lorna thought: The sapphire ring! Bruce had told her he and Aunt Addy had found it in the upholstery of the chaise longue. Lorna herself had searched down that upholstery and hadn’t found it. Yesterday she had laughed about it as a joke on herself. But … but what if the ring hadn’t been there? What if Bruce had lied?

The emeralds, too! Was it conceivable that Bruce could have stolen Aunt Addy’s sapphire ring and her emeralds to pay the gambling debt? Was that why Aunt Addy had called so urgently?

Of course, I was forgetting. You married you a bank roll. The cynical implications of that remark tore at her. Her whole new enchanted life was tottering around her, undermined by her own suspicions. Bruce had never loved her. Bruce had only married her for Aunt Addy’s money. Bruce, who could lie about the betting, had stolen …

No! she prayed. No! Please prove me wrong. Please make me wish I were dead for thinking these things about Bruce.

Somehow she got through the nightcaps with Sylvia and Larry. Then at last she and Bruce were alone.

“Lorna, Lorna, darling, I know what you’re thinking.”

He caught at her arm. She pulled away.

“Lorna, baby, please listen. I did put five thousand on a horse. I’d got a straight tip. Seven to one. It couldn’t lose. That’s what they told me. Baby, please, you must understand why I did it. Do you think it’s easy for me, penniless, being married to you? Can’t you see how I hate living on Aunt Addy’s charity, being a kept man? Babe …” His hands slid onto her elbows from behind. “Babe, I want to be a real husband. More than anything in the world, I want to be able to take care of you myself. If I’d won, I’d have made thirty-five thousand. That would have been a beginning.”

He twisted her around. His face was forlorn, ashamed, like a little boy’s face. Lorna couldn’t control her feelings. She couldn’t control that twinge of sympathy and warmth that ran through her. But she said accusingly, “How did you raise the five thousand to pay the bookie?”

Bruce shrugged. “From a moneylender. Terrific interest, of course. But, baby, it was the only thing to do. Those bookies, they’re tough. They have to be paid off. I—I couldn’t possibly have gone to Aunt Addy. You know how she’d react. Oh, babe, I’ve loused everything up. I know that. I know you think I’m the heel of the world—”

He broke away from her and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was going to tell you. I kept putting it off. I was scared. All weekend I’ve been a nervous wreck. I—I guess maybe running into Bob Struther there was a blessing in disguise. At least it’s all out in the open now. And …” He looked down at his hands. “Do you want a divorce?”

All weekend he’d been a nervous wreck. Lorna was torn between the steadiness of her thinking and her passionate desire not to lose the only real happiness she had ever found. All weekend he’d been a nervous wreck. Why not? Wasn’t this crazy loss of five thousand dollars reason enough to make anyone a nervous wreck? Wasn’t that enough in itself to explain the oddness, the uneasiness that had worried her so? The sapphire ring could have been lodged down in the upholstery, and Bruce’s explanation for Aunt Addy’s urgent phone call could perfectly well have been true.

“Babe.” He looked up at her again, and the naked suffering in his eyes made her want to cry. “It’s ruined, isn’t it? I’ve loused it up for good. What a jerk I’ve been! What a stupid jerk!”

Suddenly there was nothing but her need for him, her hunger to recapture what had almost been lost.

“Oh, Bruce!” She dropped down on the bed next to him. “I’ve been thinking such terrible things. When I heard that man and I was worried about the money, I thought—I thought maybe you’d taken Aunt Addy’s ring and the emeralds.”

“Heaven’s above!” Bruce gave a loud spontaneous laugh. “Old Raffles Mendham, the international jewel thief!”

“And then when we got mixed up about Mrs. Lindsay and you didn’t want me to call Aunt Addy—”

“Baby, my poor, sweet baby! I know I was stupid about Mrs. Lindsay. I was only half there. I …”

He twisted around and took her in his arms. She leaned against him, sobbing, exhausted by the suspicions that were dying and the restored love that was flooding through her.

“Oh, Bruce, somehow we’ll raise the money to pay off the moneylenders.”

“Of course, baby.” He was stroking her hair. “Matter of fact, I’ve already given that some deep thought. Larry’s loaded.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask Larry. But we’ll find some way.”

“That’s my baby.” Gently he stretched her out on the bed. He took off her shoes and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll call it a day and be brilliant about it tomorrow.”

As she lay there, sobbing, luxuriously enjoying her own relief, she heard Bruce undress and go into the bathroom. The fool! The idiot! It was so like him to do something crazy like that, to try to counterbalance the tiresome money thing she’d always known he hated. Who expected him to be staid and responsible, anyway? She’d always known he was as simple and muddling as a kid. That was one of the things she loved best about him—such a contrast to the efficient Aunt Addy. How could she have suspected…?

Lorna wanted a cigarette. She turned towards the bedside table. There weren’t any. Bruce’s brief case lay on a nearby chair. He always carried a carton in it. She reached out and touched the clasp.

Bruce’s voice came so suddenly that it made her jump.

“Lorna, what d’you want?”

She turned to see him silhouetted against the bathroom. She thought with horror of a life without Bruce.

“Just you, darling, and a cigarette.”

He was at her side, taking a cigarette from his bathrobe pocket, lighting it, slipping it between her lips.

“Baby, I’ll never do anything like that again. I swear it. And all my life I’ll never forget how wonderful you’ve been.”

After the door buzzer stopped and she knew Hilary had gone away, it was as if Mrs. Snow had died. There was no panic any more. Perhaps you needed at least some hope to feel panic. There was no panic, no hope, only thirst that was like an incurable disease, something to be endured minute by minute, something that would never go away.

The night stretched interminably. Was it still night? Hours ago she had dragged herself to the center of the vault and tried to read her watch. But her head was swimming, and her eyes would not focus on the dial. It didn’t matter, anyway. Time didn’t matter in the tomb.

Already there were moments when she didn’t know any longer where she was. The ceiling light above her seemed to be the light in the cabin of Gordon’s cruiser. It seemed to be swaying with the motion of the boat. And Gordon was there, sitting on the bunk with her, his arm around her shoulder. Dear Gordon! How sweet of him to be there when he was dead! Dear Gordon …

Then Gordon wasn’t there any more and a faint alarm would spread through her. Where were they headed, anyway? Why hadn’t they reached port?

“Gordon.” Her cracked lips croaked the word out loud, but she wasn’t conscious of it.

She twisted around on the cement floor, her arms curled almost caressingly about the open duct.

“This headache, Gordon, this headache. Why don’t you bring me an aspirin?”

She started to weep. The tears slid slowly down her cheeks through the straggles of hair.

You’re alone. You’re lost at sea.

Lorna Mendham stood with her martini in a corner of the Simmonses’ huge living room. The Sunday pre-lunch cocktail party was chattering around her. Sylvia and Larry, who had refused to sacrifice their day’s sailing, were not there. Bruce had run into some of his rich friends from the south of France and was out with them on the terrace.

Lorna was glad she was alone. She was too unstrung to deal with sociabilities. After the emotional scene with Bruce last night, it had seemed that everything would be perfect between them again. But it wasn’t.

When she had fallen in love with Bruce, she thought she had sloughed off forever that side of her nature that was always insecure, self-doubting. She knew now she couldn’t escape it. All morning she had been asking herself: How can I be sure Bruce was telling the truth? He had kept the crazy betting episode from her. If he’d been able to do that… I was forgetting. You married you a bank roll. If only Aunt Addy weren’t at Mrs. Lindsay’s! If only she could call her!

Lorna took a gulp of her martini and struggled grimly with herself. She had to stop feeling like this or her married life would be doomed to disaster. She looked around her for someone to talk to. She saw old Mrs. McCarthy sitting off by herself. Mrs. McCarthy was a friend of Aunt Addy’s and a bore usually to be avoided. But a bore would be just the right thing for her mood.

She took the few steps to the chair. “Hello, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“Hello, my dear. How pretty you’re looking. And how’s your aunt?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Off for the weekend with Mrs. Lindsay.”

“Mrs. Warren Lindsay?”

“That’s right.”

“But, my dear—there must be some mistake.” Mrs. McCarthy’s eyes were round as olives. “Poor Dora Lindsay died last week. She was my sister-in-law, you know. My husband flew over to Copenhagen for the funeral.”

For a moment Lorna felt she was going to faint. Desperately she managed to keep the smile on her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it. Of course I made a mistake. I always mix up Mrs. Lindsay with that—that other friend of Aunt Addy’s.”

She heard her own voice rattling out banalities. But terror was climbing through her. So she had been right. Last night, Bruce’s humility, his frankness, his shame, his apologies, had all been lies! She’d been right, too, in her suspicions yesterday on the terrace when Bruce’s arms had tightened so unexpectedly around her. He’d made that up about Mrs. Lindsay on the spur of the moment. Why? To keep her from calling Aunt Addy? Why? What had he done to Aunt Addy?

She glanced wildly around the room. Bruce wasn’t in sight.

“Excuse me, Mrs. McCarthy. I—I just remembered. A phone call …”

She hurried out away from the party into the hall, picked up the telephone, and gave Aunt Addy’s number. She was shivering. She could hardly keep the receiver to her ear. And all the time there was a dreadful feeling at the back of her neck that at any moment Bruce would be there behind her, Bruce who was now a stranger, a stranger of monstrous terror.

She could hear the phone ringing at the other end. Someone must be there. At least Arlene. Arlene was to have been there all day Sunday. The distant bell rang and rang.

“Sorry, madam. They don’t seem to answer. Shall I—?”

Lorna put down the receiver. Feverishly she felt through her pocketbook. She had Arlene’s number. She was sure of it. Yes, she found it in her address book. She picked up the phone again.

An unknown man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Is Arlene there? This is Mrs. Mendham, Mrs. Snow’s niece.”

“Sorry, ma’am, she’s in Atlantic City.”

“But she was supposed to be working for my aunt today.”

“No, ma’am, Mr. Mendham called and told her Mrs. Snow was going away for the weekend. She has off till Tuesday.”

Fear was in Lorna’s blood now like ice. “Did—did Mr. Mendham say where Mrs. Snow was going?”

“No, ma’am, just that Arlene could be off till Tuesday.”

“But … but …”

Lorna heard someone behind her.

“All right,” she said into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you. I—I just thought you might know.”

She put down the receiver and turned. Bruce was coming through the living-room door. He was smiling at her affectionately.

“Here you are, babe. I’ve been looking for you all over.”

Astonishingly, her fury at Bruce and her own gullibility conquered her terror. She found she could smile back at him almost casually.

“Hi, Bruce. I was calling the Emmetts,” she lied. “There’s a man who’s mad to see Larry on business before he goes back to New York. I thought the servants might know just when they’d get in from sailing.”

His hand was on her arm. It was all she could do to keep from screaming at his touch. He’d called Arlene to put her off for the weekend. He’d lied about Mrs. Lindsay to keep Lorna from telephoning the house. Why? Why? Where was Aunt Addy? What had he done to her?

“Darling.” As he drew her into the living room, his voice was buoyant with high spirits. “A wonderful break. I’ve run into the Baintons from Saint Tropez. They’re stinking rich, and they’re dying to meet you.”

Her nerves, stretched almost to the snapping point, gave her an uncanny clarity of mind. She had to go home to Aunt Addy. At once. Without arousing his suspicions. There was only one way to do it. Now …

They were passing among the cocktail guests. Lorna leaned against her husband; she gave a convincing little sigh and crumpled onto the floor.

She’d been so close to fainting genuinely that the fake hadn’t been hard. She heard the abrupt change from chatter to twittering around her. She felt someone’s—Bruce’s—arm slipping under her shoulders.

“Water! Get water!”

Later, as a glass was pressed against her lips, she opened her eyes flutteringly and looked straight into her husband’s solicitous face.

“Where…? Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Lorna, baby.”

“It must be the sun. All that sun yesterday. Bruce, you’d better take me back to Sylvia’s.”

“Of course, baby. Of course.”

He lifted her up in his arms and carried her out past the concerned guests and to the car. As he drove her back to the Emmetts’, she leaned limply against him, thinking, What shall I do?

It was a nightmare to suspect so much and know so little. It was money, of course. He had done something to raise money. The sapphire ring? The emeralds? But why had he marooned Aunt Addy? Why was he making sure that no one should call the house?

At the Emmetts’, Bruce lifted her tenderly out of the car and carried her upstairs to their bedroom. Everything he’d done, every little thing he’d said, was monstrously significant now. She must think back. She …

He laid her down on the bed. As he did so, she glimpsed his brief case lying on the chair by the window. Last night she had reached for it in search of cigarettes, and Bruce, coming suddenly out of the bathroom, had almost shouted, “What do you want?” Hadn’t his voice sounded odd to her even then? The brief case! Perhaps there was something in the brief case.

“Lorna, baby.” Bruce was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Feeling better?”

The brief case! Her pulses were pounding. If there was anything in it, it would be locked. But the key of her jewel case fitted the lock. She knew that because once, when she’d lost her jewel-case key, she had finally opened it with the key from Bruce’s brief case.

“Please, Bruce, be an angel. Go down and get me some brandy.”

“Sure.”

The moment he left the room, she jumped up, ran to her jewel case, took out the key, and hurried with it to the brief case. As the key turned in the lock, the clasp sprang up. She searched clumsily through the case’s contents. There was a carton of cigarettes. A bunch of letters. That must be her Friday mail, which she had asked Bruce to bring down. She’d forgotten to ask him for it. Something was gleaming at the bottom of the case. She peered at it. It was a revolver! There was something else beside the gun, something little that shone more brightly. She grabbed at it.

It was Aunt Addy’s sapphire ring.

As she gazed at it, she could feel her teeth chattering. She couldn’t control them. She looked down again at the brief case. When she’d pulled up the ring, she had half knocked out of the case a brown manila envelope, a bank envelope. It had been opened. She snatched it up. It wasn’t hers or Bruce’s. It was addressed to Aunt Addy. She felt inside and brought out three checks. Cash for seven hundred and fifty dollars, signed Adelaide Snow. Cash for five hundred dollars. Cash for fifteen hundred dollars.

Scribbled across the final check, in red pencil, unmistakably written by her aunt, was the single word, Forgery.

It was plain now. Perfectly plain. Bruce had lied about the moneylender. He had raised his gambling debt by forging Aunt Addy’s checks. And Aunt Addy had found him out. That’s why she had called Lorna, urgently asking her to come home. Aunt Addy had caught him red-handed, had threatened to expose him. But … but … It was Bruce who had the checks. He must have taken them forcibly from Aunt Addy.

Then … then … He’d killed her? No, no. Never in a million years. He was too clever for that, to leave a body there, to … A phrase of Bruce’s rushed back to her. And Aunt Addy went into the vault. The vault! Last week the closing mechanism had broken; the door had swung shut of its own accord. If he’d shut her in the vault! If that was why he had put off Arlene, why he had kept Lorna from calling…! No, no. That was impossible, too. He could never …

She heard footsteps on the stairs. Swiftly she relocked the brief case and threw it back on the chair. She slipped the ring into her suit pocket. She stuffed the checks back into the envelope and pushed the envelope under the pillow.

She just got to the bed and lay down when Bruce came in with two jiggers of brandy.

“Here you are, my sweetheart. And one for Poppa, too.”

She took her glass shakily and gulped its contents. Her thoughts were reeling. If only Sylvia and Larry were there! She should call the police. No, no. How could she dare? Not till she knew more, not till she was sure. She had to get to Aunt Addy. That was the only thing. She had to get to Aunt Addy.

“Bruce, I feel terrible.”

“You poor baby. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay soon.”

“No, Bruce. I really think we should go home.”

“Home?” Bruce’s smile suddenly went. “But, baby, we can’t.”

“Why can’t we?”

“The Baintons. They’re here on their yacht. They’re starting at five for a week’s cruise up to the Cape and they’ve invited us. It’s a marvellous break. They’re lousy with money, and they’ll adore you. Once we get all chummy on the boat, it’ll be a cinch to borrow that five thousand bucks.”

Lorna felt as if a trap were slowly constricting around her. As she looked into her husband’s bland eyes, she had to clench her fists to keep from screaming: How can you lie like that? You’ve got your money. You stole it from Aunt Addy. What have you done to Aunt Addy?

But to let him know she knew would be madness. If he had done that to Aunt Addy, what mightn’t he do…? She thought of the revolver in the brief case.

“I couldn’t,” she managed. “I couldn’t possibly. I …”

“Nonsense. My darling, of course you could and of course you will. Having those moneylenders around our neck would be death. This is our chance—our only chance. Last night you forgave me. You said you did. Now you’ve just got to help me.”

He lay down on the bed next to her. His hand was stroking her forehead. “There, sweetie. Just rest a couple of hours. Then you’ll feel right as rain, and we’ll be all set to go. If Sylvia and Larry aren’t back, we’ll leave a note. We’ve got more than enough clothes. The Baintons aren’t the dressy set.”

Lorna lay there listening to the flurry of her heart. Did he know she suspected him? Was that why he had concocted this yachting scheme—to imprison her? Or was it just another ruse to keep them away longer from home and Aunt Addy? Aunt Addy! In the vault? No, no, no. A dreadful paralysis of will was creeping over her.

Bruce kissed her cheek.

“We don’t want the servants barging in on us, do we?”

He got up, locked the door, and dropped down again on the bed at her side.

“There! Now, sweetheart, go to bye-bye.” His fingers were on her forehead again, revolting as caterpillars. “Relax, baby. Poppa’s here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

In the vault, the ceiling light had burned out. Mrs. Snow was only intermittently conscious of the darkness. There were moments when it seemed like a smothering black towel stretched tight across her mouth, when her mind was clear enough to grasp reality: that she was in a trap, that she was dying. But mostly she was drifting in a world of dreams and waking visions from the past. Gordon was almost always with her. Gordon was her greatest comfort. But there were horrors, too, unmentionable horrors. Sometimes she felt as if her whole body were screaming.

But, even at the peak of nightmare, when her tongue was a swollen, choking fungus and knives cut at her brain, there was one thing she never forgot. Through every minute of every dragging hour, she knew she was fighting and that she must go on fighting.

Long ago her arms had lost their grip on the broken duct. She lay stretched out on the cement floor. She had no weapons left but this stubborn determination.

Somewhere there was a goal. She didn’t know what goal it was any more. But it was there. And, somehow, she would reach it if she fought.

Lorna lay on the bed, pretending to be asleep. Her husband’s arm was around her. She didn’t dare open her eyes, but she knew he was awake.

How much did he suspect? In all the horror of those minutes, that was the most excruciating question. All weekend he had been “handling” her. She saw that now. Even if he still suspected nothing, he would never let her get alone to a telephone, never let her out of his sight until he had her safely cut off on the Baintons’ yacht. To call the police, she would have to challenge him, to let him know she had found the forged checks, that right this minute they were lying in the manila envelope under the pillow. And if—if he had done what she thought he’d done to Aunt Addy, what, in his desperation, mightn’t he do to her?

In her extremity, the knowledge that her marriage was wrecked and her love changed to terror and revulsion were facts she accepted, but pains that would have to be endured later on. Now there was only Aunt Addy. If all else failed, she would have to risk everything to get in touch with the police. But there must still be a way to get back to Aunt Addy without Bruce realizing….

Her husband gave a grunt in his simulated sleep and, rolling closer to her, kissed the lobe of her ear. It was one of his favorite love tricks. While she struggled not to recoil from him, she felt at the same time a little thrill of hope. If he had the faintest idea that she knew the truth, he wouldn’t be trying to charm her any more. No, she was still being “handled.” Maybe her blindness, her pitiful infatuation for him were going to bring salvation. She had been such easy prey that, in his eyes, she was much too stupid to be any possible menace.

Suddenly an idea came to her. It might just work. There were a dozen ways in which it could bring disaster. But it might just work. It would all depend, of course, on her ability to act, her ability to seem loving and trusting and innocent and—stupid. But …

Bruce was kissing her ear again. She sighed contentedly, twisted towards him, and slipping her arms around his neck, pressed her lips on his.

“Darling …”

“Lorna, baby.”

“Have I been asleep for long?”

“Not long.”

“It’s amazing. I feel wonderful.”

“That’s my baby.”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine now. And the yachting trip. I think it’s a divine idea.”

Watching him through closed lashes, she saw his quick, self-satisfied smile, and she thought, wonderingly and with excitement: So he’s stupid. After all, he’s stupid.

He ruffled her hair. “Babe, that’s marvellous. Aunt Addy isn’t expecting us till Tuesday. We’ll send her a telegram tomorrow night from wherever we put in.”

“Oh, don’t let’s have Aunt Addy on our consciences.” Lorna giggled and kissed his cheek. “Darling, there’s something much more important right now than Aunt Addy.”

“What’s that?”

“Another brandy.”

The ease with which she could deceive him was almost humiliating. He rolled off the bed and, with a theatrical yawn, unlocked the door and disappeared.

Lorna ran to the brief case and unlocked it. She dropped the sapphire ring inside. Certainly he knew he had put the ring there. It would be far too dangerous to keep it out. She went to the bed and, slipping the manila envelope from under the pillow, took out the check marked Forgery and then put the envelope with the other two checks back in the brief case again among the stack of her own letters. She locked the brief case again, stuffed the Forgery check into her own pocketbook, and dropped onto the bed.

Bruce came in with the brandy. He sat down on the edge of the bed and, handing her a glass, raised the other.

“To the Mendhams, sweetie.”

“To the Mendhams, Bruce.”

Now that the crisis had come, Lorna felt icily sure of herself. Everything depended now on just what Bruce had done after he’d taken the checks from Aunt Addy. She was taking a gambler’s risk. It was at least twenty to one against her, and failure would mean disaster. But she was going to succeed. She willed it with every ounce of her being.

“Bruce, darling, I’d forgotten all about the mail. Did you bring it?”

“Why, sure, honey.”

“Then why don’t you give it to me now? I’d better read it before we go off on the yacht. There may be something important.”

Bruce Mendham crossed the bedroom towards his brief case. The sense of achievement and self-satisfaction that had been with him all weekend was still simmering delightfully in him. There had been bad moments, of course. Running into Bob Struther at the Yacht Club bar had been unfortunate, but it had been childishly simple to play on Lorna’s sympathies and lull her suspicions. Mrs. Lindsay had been unfortunate, too. But the need to keep Lorna from calling Mrs. Snow had been sprung on him so suddenly that he had snatched at the first name that came into his head. But it didn’t really matter. Later, he could explain it away to Lorna. He’d say he’d got the story muddled. It had been some friend of Mrs. Lindsay’s who’d called with news of her and invited Aunt Addy to Connecticut.

For one bad moment, when he’d found Lorna telephoning from the Simmonses’, he’d thought she might be on to something. But she’d only been calling the Emmetts.

Bruce had a vain man’s contempt for the intelligence of all women who fell in love with him. But his contempt for Lorna, who had married him, was deepest of all. When she’d fainted at the Simmonses’, she’d wanted to go home. The yachting trip hadn’t appealed to her. But all he’d had to do was to love her up a little and she was eating out of his hand. Not that it made much difference whether they went with the Baintons or not. The old woman had been in the vault for over forty-eight hours. The air must have given out long ago. Probably it would be quite safe to go back even now and “discover” her.

But the yachting trip was the artistic touch he couldn’t resist. Besides, the Baintons were good people to cultivate.

He took his key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the brief case. Instinctively he looked first for the bank envelope and saw it stuffed among Lorna’s letters. He removed it from the bundle and, holding it behind his back, took his wife’s mail over to the bed.

“Here you are, babe.”

“Thanks, darling.”

As soon as he saw Lorna absorbed in her letters, he went back to the brief case. Now he had the bank envelope actually in his hand, it occurred to him that he’d been rather rash carrying the checks around with him. As soon as he was alone, he’d destroy them. His back was turned to the bed. Before he dropped the envelope into the brief case, he opened it and glanced inside. There were the checks. There … He stiffened. Swiftly he pulled the checks out and glanced at them. It couldn’t … There must be some mistake.

But no. There were only two checks. The third check, the check on which the old woman had scribbled Forgery …

He started cautiously searching through the case. Behind him he heard Lorna give an amused laugh.

“Darling. I’ve got a letter from Rosemary Axel. Do you remember? That woman with the poodle on the Ile de France?”

Panic was stirring in Bruce. The third check wasn’t in the brief case. Could he somehow have pulled it out with Lorna’s mail? With an immense effort at calm, he crossed to the bed, sat down, and, pretending curiosity, leafed through the tumbled letters. The check wasn’t there.

Lorna smiled at him over the letter she was reading and, leaning forward, kissed his nose.

“Rosemary sends you her love. She was mad for you. I know she’s seethingly jealous of me.”

Bruce’s thoughts were skittering. Was it possible that Lorna could have suspected after all, could somehow have got into the brief case and taken the check? He studied her serene face, smiling close to his. No, that was inconceivable.

Then … Of course! The memory leaped on him like a leopard from a tree. After he’d shut the old woman in the vault, he’d taken the three checks out of the envelope in the study to look at them. He thought—he was almost sure—that he had put all three back in the envelope. But he had been excited, confused. He must have dropped the third check. Of course. It must be there now on the study floor, with the word Forgery screaming his guilt to whoever went into the room.

He had to get back. At once. Without losing a minute. It was the only possible thing. Somehow, without rousing Lorna’s suspicions, he would have to make a complete change of plan. But how?

The solution came to him. It was so simple that he found his self-confidence completely restored. He’d been quite rattled for a moment. That wasn’t like him. Bruce Mendham never got rattled.

He kissed Lorna’s cheek. “Baby, while you’re wallowing in your mail, I’ll call the Baintons and tell them we’re coming. They’re at the hotel.”

He hurried downstairs and telephoned the hotel, leaving apologies for the Baintons and explaining that he and his wife had had to return unexpectedly to New York. He went back to the bedroom, arranging his face in a mask of rueful disappointment.

“Lorna, darling, old Bainton had a mix-up. His wife had invited some people without telling him. I’m afraid the yacht’s full up.”

“Oh, Bruce, how annoying.”

“But, babe, I’ve got another idea. Bainton told me that Willie Stretz was in New York. You know, big oil man from Texas. A pal of mine. It’d be a cinch to borrow the five thousand from him. But Bainton said he’s leaving for Dallas tomorrow. The Emmetts wouldn’t think it rude of me, would they, if I pushed off to New York right now?”

“Of course not, darling.” Lorna was smiling the wifely smile. Its doting adoration had always rather irritated him. “We’ll both leave this minute. I’ll write a note for Sylvia.”

“There’s no need for you to come, too, sweetie.”

“But I want to. I only said I was feeling better because I knew the yachting trip meant a lot to you. But now … Oh, Bruce, of course I’ll go with you. As if it’s any fun being anywhere without you!”

Bruce looked at her, feeling the smug contentment of a much-loved man. Well, why not? In fact, it might be better to make the “discovery” with Lorna there as a witness.

“Okay, baby. Pack your things. Let’s get out of this place as fast as possible.”

As the car sped towards New York, Lorna was in an agony of suspense. She’d fooled him. Bruce thought he’d left the third check at the house—and he was rushing back to get it. Her plan had worked. But why had he raised so few objections to her coming with him? Was he that sure of himself? Did that mean Aunt Addy was…? She fought against the word that reared up in her mind. But didn’t it have to be that? Why else would he risk her presence?—Unless he was completely certain that he was safe, that Aunt Addy wouldn’t … wouldn’t be able to …

The afternoon traffic was thick and tangled. Bruce was driving like a demon. Lorna struggled with despair. Everything was lost. No, no. She mustn’t feel that way. She had to go on hoping that every minute still counted, that every second that took them nearer to New York would somehow help Aunt Addy.

With a wild movement the car swerved to the right, and a report sounded like a fired gun. The highway seemed to spin around them. Then in a screech of brakes and a wrenching of tires, the car jolted to a stop.

“Blowout.”

With a curse, Bruce jumped out. Shivering, Lorna climbed out, too, watching as he changed the wheel with feverish concentration. He had given up any attempt to hide his frenzied eagerness to get back to New York.

So he thinks I’m that blind, she thought with the chilliness of complete disenchantment. He has this much contempt for my intelligence.

They started once more their headlong rush to New York. Mile fled after mile. At last they crossed the East River and were snarled in the traffic of Fifty-ninth Street. Then Bruce was drawing the car up outside the house on Sutton Place.

“Well, here we are. Pretty good time.”

He was smiling his bland smile again as he helped her out onto the sidewalk. He thought he was going to win! He was still “handling” her, completely ignorant of the fact that she had the evidence to destroy him.

The fool! she thought, above the jangle of her nerves. The fool!

She stood close behind him as he opened the front door with his key. They went together into the empty hall. There was a weird howling, and the two starved Siamese cats hurtled out of the living room towards them. One of them leaped straight at Lorna. The suddenness of the attack caught her off balance. She lost her grip on her pocketbook. It fell forward onto the parquet floor, sprawling out its contents.

In a second of freezing horror, she saw the check marked Forgery. It slid, face upward, to Bruce’s feet.

Instantly she stooped to snatch it up, but even as she did so, she knew she was too late. Bruce had grabbed her wrist. He jerked her up so that she was standing immediately in front of him. His face, glaring down at her, was grey with understanding and fury.

“You!” he said. “You!”

Suddenly the panic she had been suppressing for hours was unleashed in her as hysteria, and she screamed: “Where’s Aunt Addy? What have you done to Aunt Addy?”

He dragged her towards him, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms: then, in an abrupt change of plan, he pushed her away. His face had completely collapsed. It was quivering and ashen and covered with sweat. He was fumbling in his pocket. He swept out his keys and brought them towards the brief case.

The gun. Of course, the gun. Lorna threw herself at him, knocking the brief case sideways. He grabbed it again and lashed out at her with his fist. As she staggered backward, he inserted the key into the lock. She threw herself at him again. Dimly she was conscious of the wailing of the cats, rolling around her like an embodiment of her own hysteria.

“Aunt Addy!” she cried. “Where is Aunt Addy?”

She was clutching at him, scratching with her nails, biting into the sleeve of his coat, screaming. She could feel his arms crushing her, feel his hot, panting breath, rancid with brandy, as they struggled together in a nightmare embrace.

And then, suddenly, as the last of her strength was ebbing from her, she felt him go limp and heavy in her grip. He tottered forward against her. Still screaming, she made an immense effort and tore herself from him as he lurched past her and collapsed onto the floor.

She was shivering and whimpering. Tears of terror were blinding her eyes. She blinked and started. For a moment she couldn’t believe …

There, in front of her, standing over Bruce, his face white and terrified, was little Joe Polansky. He had something in his hand. What was it? The little hand sanding machine …

“Joe!”

“I just come in to get the machines. I heard—”

He broke off. He hadn’t looked up at her. He was staring down at the unconscious Bruce. Suddenly, with savage viciousness, he kicked him in the stomach. Then, jumping over him, he started running up the stairs.

Lorna stumbled after him. “Joe!”

His voice trailed down from above her, incoherent with hatred and rage.

“He locked her in. I found a note in the furnace duct. He locked Mrs. Snow up in the vault.”

Mrs. Snow was conscious of light and of things—arms?—twining around her, lifting her. There was motion. Was it the boat again? Was it Gordon? She could hear sounds, too—voices, but then, for a long time now, there had been voices. They weren’t really voices; she knew that. They were cats.

There was something she had to say, something of vast importance that would save everything. But before she could say it, a great black sail slipped down from the mast and enveloped her.

When she opened her eyes, almost twenty-four hours later, she was looking straight into Lorna’s face. How lovely to see Lorna! And the man standing behind her, wasn’t it old Dr. Garner?

“Aunt Addy. Darling Aunt Addy, are you all right? The police have taken him away.”

Him. Bruce. Mrs. Snow remembered everything now. But it didn’t matter. It was over.

“Lorna, dear!” She felt a great sense of peace flooding through her. But there was still something on her mind. What was it? Oh, yes, of course. “Lorna, have the cats been fed?”

“Yes, yes. The cats are fine.”

Mrs. Snow brought her hand up from under the covers and laid it on her niece’s arm.

“I was so worried about the cats,” she said.